


Twelve Easy Pieces

by Subtilior



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe: conservatory, Alternate Universe: no powers, Alternate Universe: present day, Angsty Schmoop, Charles Is a Darling, Charles You Will Be Drunk, Classical Music, Concerts, Erik Being Cocky, F/M, Falling In Love, M/M, Reverse Big Bang, True Love, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, cellists, composers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:58:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subtilior/pseuds/Subtilior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik Lehnsherr, cellist extraordinaire, has to get through one last year at the Forlane Institute before he can kick Shaw and Frost to the curb and get on with his life. All he has to do is practice night and day and ignore people who get in his way. However, when he comes to the rescue of Charles Xavier, composer and rival, at the Opening Day concert, the aftereffects launch them down the path of music-making, challenge-taking, and True Love.</p><p>Written for the Reverse Big Bang, inspired by the art of <b>pseudoneems</b>, found <a href="http://i.imgur.com/PFynZ.jpg">here</a>. Many many thanks to <b>Spicy</b> for the beta!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pseudoneems](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pseudoneems).



> A round of fervent thanks to the patient mods of the XMFC Reverse Big Bang. Three loud cheers for the chat room; four loud cheers to **Spicy** for the mad beta-ing skills. And thanks to **pseudoneems** , who draws beautiful art, and who is patient and talented and approving of Beatrice. Hugs and thanks to you, and I hope you enjoy this fill.

“What are you hearing?”

Charles smiled up at the dingy watermarks on the ceiling. “You, warming up. Scales. Arpeggios.”

“Not ‘what do you hear.’ I mean: what are you hearing in your head? I know you, Charles.”

The last arpeggio – C-sharp minor, first inversion – rumbled to a stop. A sigh, and fingers let go of the C-string. Charles heard the reverb; it gave the smallest hint of pitch to Erik's grumble.

“I know you, and I know that look.”

“You can’t see my face, dearest. Is the line of my chin so very transparent?”

“Fine. I know that silence, then.”

Charles hummed. “You should keep warming up.”

“The Mozartended five minutes ago. _They_ should damn well call me onstage.”

“Probably having trouble arranging for the percussion.”

“Your fault, then.”

“Isn’t it always?”

A few plucked notes. Charles recognized the gestures. Erik was nervous, even if he wasn’t going to admit it. Then the near-silent ripple of an arpeggio without the bow, and one passage, drummed onto the fingerboard, that he recognized instantly. A nasty one. Completely out of key, jumping across two strings at a time, and then a flip up into thumb position for a chord. He wished he could say it had been inspiration, but he had written it as a specific challenge … for one specific, stubborn cellist.

“Well done, you.”

A grunt. “Don’t patronize me.”

“It’s you patronizing me, Erik.” Charles stretched and heaved himself up from his sprawl on the ratty couch. “Who else would play my concerto so very consistently? And so very, very … passably.”

The cello squawked. “ _Passably_?”

He was so easy to tease, even after so many years. Charles walked up behind Erik and gently laid his hands on his shoulders. He leaned forward, let his chin drop onto Erik’s hair. “More than passably.”

“That’s all?”

Charles pressed a kiss onto one of Erik’s temples. Easier to find, these days; his hair was thinning. Erik tipped his head in the direction of the kiss and sighed.

Perhaps another kiss, to sweeten his mood? Charles gave him one. “Stage fright?”

“Hardly.” The bow landing on the strings released a puff of rosin into the air. The arpeggios started again.

Charles kept his palms on Erik’s shoulders, fascinated at the movement of muscles beneath his fingers. Fascinated, until the cello’s neck rapped the knuckles of his left hand. “ _Oi_.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“It’s just arpeggios, love.” Charles withdrew, nonetheless, and started ambling around the room. “And it’s just my concerto, which you’ve performed two dozen times. Each and every time to great acclaim. I’d have it no other way. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Charles decided to let it rest. Erik was notoriously touchy before his performances. Touchy and guarded. It had only been after a ten-year campaign that he had allowed Charles into the soloist’s dressing room at all. And this one, Charles thought, was quite middling. Everything in decent order, but that couch had seen better days, and the mirror was dingy in its frame.

Not that Erik would use it. Charles leaned back against a wall, wedged his hands into his pockets, and indulged himself in a long look. The years had been more than kind. Erik’s coppery hair was now shot through with white. Youth going to age had smoothed out the angles of his body and made more dramatic the jut of cheekbones and jaw. Erik staring into the distance, brow furrowed and lips set, could be found in black-and-white – or in glorious, brooding color – on any number of posters, websites …. Even CDs, for lovers of antiques.

Well. Erik and his one true love.

The one true love gave another low rumble as Erik flicked a trill on the C-string. Then he glanced up at Charles, lips thin. “What are you thinking?”

“What am I hearing; what am I thinking – I’ll tell you something, Erik. I’m looking at someone who’s worrying all too much, about one little benefit concert.” Charles raised one eyebrow. “That and I’m jealous.”

“God, of what? I’ve told you, with surgery being what it is these days – with Hendricks on call up in New York –”

“Oh no, not of that. No. I’m jealous …” Charles narrowed his eyes, “of _her_.”

There was a pause. Then Erik snorted. “That joke does get old, Charles.”

“You think I’m joking? I’m not. I watch her there, right between your legs and you with your hands all – over – her,” Charles pushed off the wall and paced forward, “and right in front of my _eyes_ , Erik – the most wanton display of …”

It had worked. Erik was grinning up at him. “… Of?”

“Musicality.”

The grin turned sly as Erik started in on the _Carmen Fantasy_. At pitch, the lunatic, which would sound ridiculous if any other cellist were trying it. It would get messy rather quickly, though, so Charles interrupted.

“The absolute _tramp_. She’s in my spot.”

“We’ve discussed this before,” Erik replied. “Haven’t we?”

He played a few false harmonics. The fluting sounds warbled up to Charles, who sniffed.

“None of that. Thirty seconds to let him go, or I’m snapping your G-string.”

“She needs that for the concerto,” Erik said mildly. “Don’t you, dear?”

A low trill; almost a burp. Then another, and another, and Charles tried to get a word in edgewise. “Does my style disagree with you? Have you tried some Boccherini? That would settle any cello’s digestion, I’m sure.”

“She hates Boccherini.”

“I don’t see why. Charming, very pretty –”

“She doesn’t like pretty.”

“Hm, I suppose not. I suppose she likes rugged, and temperamental –”

Erik smiled as Charles closed the distance between them.

“ – and brilliant, and gorgeous, and very much like a certain person we both know. Can you guess, Erik? Whom she likes?”

As close as Charles had come, Erik hardly had room to bow. So he stopped playing.

“Victory is mine,” Charles said, and dropped a kiss on his brow.

“You can do better than that,” Erik breathed, and Charles hardly had time to think before Erik surged up out of his chair and caught his lips. Which just wasn’t done, not just before a concert, except that it was hot and slick and everything lovely, and Charles had to make up his mind whether or not to drop to his knees, shoulder the cello out of the way and give Erik a send-off he wouldn’t forget any time soon –

He heard a knock on the door. “Mr. Lehnsherr? They’re ready for you.”

Erik broke the kiss with a growl. “Damn.”

“Hold that thought.” Charles pressed his fingertips against stark cheekbones. “There’s more where that came from.”

“Is there?” Erik got to his feet.

Charles brushed the lapels of his tuxedo. “Of course there is. Go out there, and get through that little concerto and we’ll pick up where we left off. You could think of it as a musical intermission.” He smiled. “Between the main acts.”

“Charles, I –”

Charles blinked up at him. “What is it?”

There had been something about Erik’s voice … And something about his eyes, intent on Charles from beneath eyebrows drawn together. Was he biting his lip?

“What, Erik?” He laid his hands flat on the lapels. “Tell me.”

“Your piece – I.” Erik made an effort. “I want it to sound …”

Charles waited him out.

“I want it to sound the way you hear it.” He reached up and brushed a thumb against Charles’ lips. The bow left a streak of rosin on his suit jacket, but Charles didn’t care.

“It’s important to me, Charles. I want it to be – what you want. What you hear.” Erik tried to smile. “In that head of yours.”

“Oh, love.”

Charles brought his hands up to Erik’s face. He smoothed his palms over the weathered skin, tracing all the lines he knew. “The way you perform this … Erik. It’s already everything I wanted it to be.”

“Is it?”

“Of course. It’s yours. I wrote it for you.” Charles brushed this thumbs over Erik’s lips. “When I hear it, it’s you there. Playing.”

They were closer in height, now. Playing as much as he did had given Erik the slightest stoop; he would grump whenever Charles suggested better posture. Then again, as long as it didn’t hurt, Charles didn’t mind. It just made Erik easier to kiss.

So he did.

And he was the one who had to bring it to a close. “Go on, then.” He gave Erik a gentle push. “Break a leg.”

“ ‘Except not really –’ ” Erik said, opening the door.

“Except not really,” Charles nodded to the stagehand, poised to knock again, “because that would really, really hurt. Good evening.” Charles smiled at the conductor; let the effusive welcome tumble over him. Erik had told him his trick their first year together – the removal that would come moments before a performance, the words of others receding into gentle white noise. The conductor’s words, the mutters from the audience … the tinny sound of an announcement, asking for all electronic devices to be silenced.

Except that wouldn’t do. Were it not for the vagaries of electronic devices, Erik would never have …

Charles grinned at the memory. He gave Erik’s shoulder one last squeeze and stepped back into the shadow of the curtain. Erik lifted his chin and strode onstage without looking back.

Charles watched him go.

The conductor was following, but Charles had no eyes for him. He focused on Erik instead. Erik, sweeping down into a proud bow, turning to shake the concertmaster’s hand. Then the rituals of adjusting, tuning … and the silence.

In many ways, Charles thought, this was his favorite part. The silence before things began; when anything could happen. He knew what would happen, of course. The concerto would open with a cadenza – an odd choice, but one he had defied all critique to keep. He had wanted the first moments of his concerto to be all for Erik and himself.

He had wanted it that way from the beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to **Spicy** for the editing!
> 
> And to anybody reading: thanks for your patience with this fic. May I make a quick request? If you could please save any kudos and comments for when this work is complete, that'd be great. [/Office Space] Seriously, that way not only will I be spurred to continue as quickly as may be (by the thought of sweet, sweet, eventual feedback) but it'll put this puppy on the same page as those who posted all at once in the RBB. I am very conscious of things proceeding _molto adagio_.

Charles knew enough operas to know that love had a way of catching people off guard. He just never thought that would be the case for him.

Of all times, and in all places – the Opening Day concert? In Lake Hall, full of people whispering and digging out peppermints in the concert breaks? At the very least there could have been a romantic piece playing in the background as what happened ... happened.

True love in operas, ballets, and symphonic poems: brought to the lead courtesy of gods, or fairies, or the entire string section in glorious unison.

Never by an air conditioner.

* * *

Erik checked the buttons on his cuffs again. Deep breath in, exhale – roll his shoulders, crack his knuckles. His first teacher had bitched at him about that. Now he did it just for the memories.

Maybe she had been right, though. Erik grimaced at the ache in his fingers. What he wouldn’t give for a bowl of hot water, just to soak his hands.

He walked toward the blaze of light, taking care to keep behind the dusty blue curtain. Nice music. A string quartet, playing … He blinked. They were playing well - but that was a given, since they went to Forlane just like everybody else sawing away on this round of recitals.

Erik blinked again. The piece was was obviously modernist, which normally meant he’d have no second thoughts about calling it a pile of shit. A thousand monkeys, each chained to a piano keyboard. Or a computer keyboard, these days.

This sound, though ....

_Isn’t it lovely?_

He swallowed hard. Sure, his mother would have said that, but she thought everything was lovely – even his own first squawking and screeching on the cello.

Erik looked down. He had somehow tangled his fingers in the threads of a tassel. A sharp enough tug on the heavy golden rope would bring the curtain tumbling down. He grinned and carefully eased his fingers out. Mother would not have approved – but she had been a singer, and nobody ever upstaged her. Even this music would not have drawn the applause away. Even if it did sound like the best mix of … Erik concentrated. Ives and Glass, maybe? Maybe with some Cage mixed in, because damn if that obnoxious beeping wasn’t some bit of performance art –

“Knew it.”

Erik hadn’t heard Hendry step up behind him – odd, because the guy was usually pretty loud.

“What’s wrong?”

“Air conditioner – that’s what’s making that damn fool noise. I told them they ought to fix it, but would they listen? Of course not. All they think of is –”

Hendry slammed the stage door shut on his own words, which left Erik perfectly able to hear the crowd starting to whisper and laugh, even as the quartet whirled to a stop. _Nice_ – like Schubert, sort of, except the people were still laughing. Even as Charles Xavier stood up to bow and sank back into his seat, face crimson.

“Oh.” Yeah, his voice cracked, but there was only the curtain to hear it. “Xavier.”

It had been his piece, Erik realized. And now people were _laughing_ at him.

“To hell with that. C’mon.” He made a grab for the neck of his cello with his free hand. He caught the scroll instead, but Beatrice wouldn’t mind. “Bach. Easy, does it, and let’s get the beat, all right?”

He listened to the air conditioner, peered to look at it, and then saw the sharp-eyed stare of someone sitting next to Xavier – a girl. _Shit_. Girlfriend? For a minute he wavered, but: “Nope. C’mon,” he muttered. “Show ’em all.”

Stupid sheep, to laugh at Xavier. If he were Erik’s boyfriend, now, Erik would find the laughers and punch their teeth in.

“ _Boyfriend?_ ” He exhaled hard and glared at the curtain. “Where do you get this shit?”

“You’re on.” Hendry poked him in the shoulder.

He hadn’t heard the old man come back. Erik twisted his torso away. “You fix the air conditioner?”

“Nope. Don't choke."

"Wasn't planning on it,” he said through his teeth, smiling. He saw Hendry falter. Then Erik tilted up his chin and strode out onto the stage.

Erik Lehnsherr to the rescue, with his faithful sidekick Beatrice. He inclined his head to acknowledge the applause and smiled out over the audience – all bejeweled and rich, only just done with laughing at Xavier. Who needed a tux and tails? For this sort of gig, he wanted a cape.

* * *

For once, Raven was paying attention. Charles congratulated himself – until he saw that what she was looking at was _not_ his piece being performed. Well. At least she had ears to hear it. But why she was staring so intently offstage, when the quartet was just pausing to turn the pages?

“Is that all?” The stage whisper carried. She had shaken off whatever had held her attention, and nudged him with one knobby elbow. “Is it over?”

Charles sighed and relaxed his death grip on his program. “One more movement.”

“They’re not moving, though.” Raven heaved a sigh of her own. “It’s weird.”

“Thank you, I think.”

It didn’t matter, Charles told himself. It was his second quartet, and he had meant it to be weird. ‘Fractured, shimmering – flashes of color in a background wash of mystery.’ He could quote the review in the _Inquirer_ from memory. Even the ‘needs more maturing’ line. That and MacTaggert’s irritable: “Parallel fifths, _parallel_ fifths, Charles – god above.”

Just a string quartet – but here was the meter change that had tripped up the cellist in rehearsal just that morning. Charles leaned forward and narrowed his eyes –

– and that was when the air conditioner started beeping.

It was loud, just as the violins were reaching the softest moment in the movement. Loud, obnoxious – Charles squeezed his eyes shut and crumpled the program between his fingers.

When he looked again, old Hendry was poking at the machine, trying to turn it off or turn it down, or something. All it did was gurgle and keep on beeping, straight through to the end of his piece. He saw broad smiles, and hands coming up to cover mouths. Charles focused on his music, though. Not on the snickering, or even the polite clapping that started up as the musicians finished.

“There!” Raven joined the applause; grinned at him. “Good job – oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

Charles stood quickly to acknowledge the audience, turned the attention back on the musicians, and flopped back down. “Don’t you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That _beeping_.” 

“Oh.” Her brow knit. “I thought that was part of the piece.”

“Part of the – tell me you’re joking.”

“God, you’re such a diva. But settle down, settle down, because next on the program is,” Raven squinted at it, then flicked a glance offstage. “Erik Lehnsherr, violoncello. Bach, Suite No. 1 in G Major. No-one, huh?”

“ ‘Number’ one,” Charles snapped.

“I know, geez. Just trying to cheer you up. It’s not the end of the world, Charles. It was just a bit of noise.”

At least, he thought grumpily, Erik would have to deal with the same beeping. There he was, loping onstage. His light blue shirt fell in straight lines to his slender waist, his dress trousers were cinched tight and his cello gleamed like a new penny. Well, perhaps like a slightly older penny – the curves and edges of the instrument were dark. He smiled at the audience and bent his head to acknowledge their enthusiasm. They played favorites, Charles knew, but it didn't sting. Erik was good - he deserved all the applause he could get.

Charles looked at the program again and bit his lip.  G major meant that the air conditioner beeping perhaps a quarter tone off would sound even worse in the background than it had in his own piece. Not that he was worried for Erik. Not at all. 

Then Erik did something.

Well, three things.

First he raised his chin and waved one bony hand at the air conditioner. “Any hope of turning that thing off?”

Only a nervous titter from the audience answered him.

“Shame.”

Then he did the second thing. Erik looked up at the chandelier, absently plucked at the cello’s strings, and started tuning it … down. Charles blinked at the creak of pegs. He couldn’t be thinking of – _oh._

He was.

“Clever.” He glanced round the audience. Sure enough, Shaw looked as though he had sucked on a lemon.

“What is?” Raven asked. She tipped her head to one side, considering the stage. “You know, he’s pretty hot. My team or yours?”

“Oh, for – who cares? Honestly. And what’s clever is that he’s tuning the cello to the air conditioner.” 

“Cool, I guess.”

Raven had already turned back to the program. Thus, she hadn’t been paying attention when it happened.

Because the third thing Erik did was … _smile_.

Charles saw it, flashing out for just a brief moment before the bow touched the strings and music started rippling out over the audience. He had never seen Erik smile quite like that before … and …

Had it been at him?

Charles bit down on his lower lip. Surely not. Even if Erik was still looking at him. The air conditioner was beeping, but strangely in time. No, not quite in time … wait. _Wait._

“Oh. You can’t be – you _are_.”

A triple meter, superimposed on Bach’s duple. Polymeter. With Erik Lehnsherr playing the cello, and unfathomable powers playing the air conditioning unit.

Charles didn’t need to imagine himself as Tchaikovsky, feeling his music rushing off the stage and drowning him in beauty, to know – _oh_ god. He didn’t need to think of anything except those eyes, and the secret smile, just for him.

He didn’t even need to catch Erik’s wink to know that he was in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (disclaimer: I'm posting youtube links for fun, not profit!)
> 
> Charles is an irredeemable romantic of a musical listener. And one of the most romantic of all composers is: Tchaikovsky! (Spellings vary!)
> 
> Here's the classic - the symphonic poem "Romeo & Juliet" (although Tchaikovsky called it, and other pieces like it, an overture-fantasy.) This 2007 recording features the London Symphony Orchestra conducted by Gergiev.
> 
> [Romeo & Juliet](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cxj8vSS2ELU)
> 
> Another fun one is the lesser-known "Francesca da Rimini," based on the story of the two adulterous lovers caught in one of the first circles of Dante's "Inferno." (Maybe the first? I'm not sure. All I know is that it punishes them for lust by buffeting them with a horribly strong wind forever.)
> 
> This is a re-release of a recording from much earlier, Mravinsky conducting the Moscow Philharmonic in 1940.
> 
> [Francesca da Rimini](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oFsHsMxPnig)
> 
> Tchaikovsky composed a ton of other music, across all genres. His symphonies give him the most gravitas in the concert hall. His ballets are well known - "Swan Lake" and the "Nutcracker" especially. His concerto for violin is a bear, as are his works for piano. 
> 
> Finally, a note on polymeter. It's difficult to get exactly right - I tried fiddling with a recording of Yo-Yo Ma playing the Bach mentioned in this chapter - [Bach - Prelude in G](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCicM6i59_I) \- but due to his flexibility with the tempo, I couldn't get the beeps to line up in correct polymeter. (He's playing in duple; I wanted a contrast in triple; cue the failboats.)
> 
> For an example of many different meters jostling for supremacy, check out Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring." Here it is, played by the Radio Filharmonisch Orkest and conducted by Jaap van Zweden.
> 
> [The Rite of Spring](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5UJOaGIhG7A)
> 
> At 12:53 or so, you can hear (and see!) the contrabasses playing a marked duple beat (1-2 1-2 1-2). While Stravinsky inflects the accents quite a bit in the other instruments, that basic beat is pretty constant. 
> 
> At 13:27 the strings repeat an earlier idea, jostling the beat around a bit more. But it's at 13:45 that everything starts to go nuts. The drums begin another beat pattern at that point. At around 13:56, the tam-tam starts a third pattern, aaaand at about 14:08 the high winds and some of the strings are all: "fuck this noise, we want to do our own thing." Many different beats sounding simultaneously, and none overtly lining up with each other - fun, fun times.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to beta **Spicedpiano**!
> 
> repost of previous note: To anybody reading, thanks for your patience with this fic. May I make a quick request? If you could please save any kudos and comments for when this work is complete, that'd be great. [/Office Space] Seriously, that way not only will I be spurred to continue as quickly as may be (by the thought of sweet, sweet, eventual feedback) but it'll put this puppy on the same page as those who posted all at once in the RBB. I am very conscious of things proceeding molto adagio.

One Monday about a month later, Charles stared down at a sheet of graph paper. There were his classes and work and recreation hours, all carefully colored and coded. And how would love fit into it?

Love. The word sounded insignificant. He had dated, both men and women. Just not recently. It wasn’t as though he was lonely … he had family. He had Raven, didn’t he?

“Love,” he said to his schedule. Started to doodle in the empty Saturday block. “Really? How can one know for sure?”

He wasn’t poised atop a tower gazing down; he wasn’t readying a blade for any reason. He definitely wasn’t dropping farewell arias left and right. He could still eat and sleep, and he was perfectly able to compose …

Charles stared down at his fingers. Then he flexed them. After all this time, some days were better than others – but Erik’s fingers now, those were – were –

He let his head fall onto his schedule, heedless of the ink. “Oh,” he groaned. “That’s how.”

* * *

That afternoon, Erik rounded a corner on the third floor and almost ran into him. Coming from the practice rooms, Charles guessed wildly, as all the blood in his body raced to his cheeks, and to his – to – _fuck_ –

“Oh my god,” he mumbled, and turned on one heel and fled.

Erik had been wearing a form-fitting green turtleneck, was why. Charles was glad the sight hadn’t made him fall down the stairs while running. He could explain a sprained ankle to any concerned passerby – but a raging hard-on? Not so much.

* * *

On Tuesday, his apartment was invaded by the worst sort of prima donna: a _primo uomo_ with a hint of a cough and with more than a hint of hysteria about it.

“Love?” Sean gargled.

“Spit,” Charles ordered.

Sean obeyed. Salt water cascaded into the sink; spitting and retching noises echoed off the bathroom walls.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that’s horrible!”

“You have to maintain your vocal health – and you were the one to ask me for help.”

“Remind me not to do that again,” Sean muttered. He yawned, extravagantly – it turned into a succession of nonsense vocables.

“That can’t be good for –”

“Don’t crimp my style, man.” A grin into the mirror above the sink, and Sean sang: “Don’t crimp my _style –_ ”

“Hell, you’ll wake the neighbors.” Charles swatted him with a towel. “And all their dogs.”

“But: Love! Love, is a many-splendored thing –”

“You stole that from _Moulin Rouge_.”

“So _what_?” Sean yodeled. “How do you know that you are in _love_?”

“I don’t.” Charles sat down on the toilet lid.

“Do I know this _guy_?”

‘Guy’ lasted for thirty seconds. Charles started counting them off once Sean broke ten. He sighed. “Good job. Your breath seems fine.”

“Thank _you –_ ”

“Stop that. And yes, you do know him.”

“But everyone I know is a _douche_!”

“… Except me, surely.”

“Except _you_!!”

Sean kicked everything up an octave, fit to shatter the Xavier crystal in its safe two states away. Charles sighed again and waited him out. With any luck and a gallon of cough syrup, the entire conversation, such as it was, would be forgotten.

* * *

Wednesday saw Erik start to walk towards him after Bosch’s history lecture. His lean face had been intent; his eyes bright.

“Charles? Can I ask you –”

“Maybe later!” Charles squeaked, and dashed.

But _what_ , he thought, staring at his schedule again through a haze of whiskey later that night, was turning him into such a coward?

* * *

Thursday was his main lesson for the week. A fine time to have a resurgence of both courage and the need to ask for advice, because his professor said:

“Love?” MacTaggert glared at him. “Are you kidding me?”

“Um. No?”

“Wrong answer. If you don’t have time to take out the parallel fifths, you don’t have time for anything else.”

“They’re intentional –”

“They’re _gone_ by next week, yes?”

“… Yes. And,” Charles said, dignified, “I was joking.”

“Joking.”

“Yes. Would I bring up something as personal as – love? In a lesson?”

“With the kind of hangover you’re shaking off right now? Probably.”

Charles felt mortified. “How did you know?”

MacTaggert rolled up the draft of his sonata and tapped him on the head with it. “I hear all, I see all, and I sure as hell _smell_ all. Go home, take out the parallel fifths, and take a shower for all our sakes.”

* * *

On Friday it rained hard. And since rain always made Charles’ entire body ache, he huddled in bed with a huge mug of tea all morning long. His afternoon at the children’s hospital was colored bright yellow on the schedule, though, so he dragged himself out of bed at noon and heaved his box of rattles and kazoos into the back of a cab at quarter past.

“Maple and Mid, please.”

“No prob. What’s the racket?”

Charles lifted a tambourine; shook it. “For kids.”

“Cool.” And the cab driver favored him with anecdotes of his own children the whole ride over.

Charles made a point of not looking for Erik on the street. Not that he would be outside in such weather, he realized, frowning. Erik’s umbrella had acquired a third patch right after the early summer hailstorm, and had not appeared thus far in the fall – and he had no slicker whatsoever as far as Charles knew.

Erik’s _umbrella_. Charles swore as he paid, wedged the box beneath one arm and shoved his wet hair back from his face. Erik’s hands and smile – well and good. That was due to love, and to two years of staring. Erik’s turtlenecks … a more recent development. But knowing about his umbrella?

Walking two extra turns in the hospital’s revolving door took him straight out of his reverie. And even though Charles dripped rainwater all over their entryway, the receptionist smiled and a porter laughed.  Story of his life.

* * *

Friday evening he grilled Azazel in a practice room.

“Make it quick. Quicker than this, hey?” Arpeggios cascaded from the violin – right before he swept into a theme that Charles recognized instantly.

“That wasn’t on the Opening Day concert.”

“Of course not. You think I give the peons Corelli?” Azazel made a rude sound between his teeth. “But I give you _La Follia_ – the crazy dance. Because this is what love does, yes? Makes you crazy.”

Charles closed his eyes and let his feet tap along to the first variation. Azazel finished with a flourish and embarked on another. In between chords he mused, “So do I know this guy?”

It had been worth a shot, Charles thought, eyes opening quickly. He hoped he didn’t look too guilty. Azazel was one of Erik’s friends – they were in the same piano trio. Charles hadn’t thought it wise to name names, though, since Azazel was … overprotective, to say the least.

He shrugged. “Hypothetical.”

“Hnh.” Azazel started up with tenths, the show-off. “Somehow I think you are fibbing.”

“Ah, but what do you think of my question?”

“I _think_ ,” a chord, “that you need,” another, “to ask this man on a date.” A concluding chord. “And do it fast.”

“Why fast?”

“That way you know right away if there is a connection. If so, good; if not, no hard feelings. And especially _fast_ for you, because you have been sad all week, and nobody at this illustrious institution likes a sad Charles Xavier.”

Charles felt his cheeks turn pink. “Right.”

“Of course right. You are the little ray of sunshine.” Azazel gave him a wink. “And if the little ray of sunshine gets too sad to work – and leaves – then the board says good-bye to the money, money, _money –_ ”

“That’s out of my control,” Charles snapped.

“I know, I know. Kidding.”

“Somehow I think you’re fibbing.”

“We start to rhyme. Too bad I must practice instead of playing at opera. Get lost.”

Charles didn’t mind the rough humor. He pushed himself off the door with one shoulder; grabbed at the handle. Azazel could tease all day – but when the Xavier Foundation was brought into the conversation … He grimaced.

“Sad face, sad _face_ – get out! You distract me.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Charles grumped, and left.

Azazel tried to get the last word, with what sounded like a particularly diabolical variation on “You Are My Sunshine.” Charles ignored the dissonances that screeched through the door and listened for a cello as he paced down the hallway. There was none – but on a Friday night, he remembered, Erik would be at synagogue. And there was nothing sketchy at _all_ about knowing a crush’s religious practices. Charles winced as left the practice wing behind.

* * *

“Your problem,” Raven said to him on Saturday, “is that you’re overthinking it.”

“No I’m not.”

Charles sat in his window seat, looking out at the mist draping the city in grey. Rain pattered against the glass. He traced a pattern in the condensation – or started to. Easier to give up halfway.

“ – and you expect people to just, I don’t know, pick up on all your googly-eyed unrequited love stuff. And when they don’t, you go out with all the wrong people instead.”

Raven’s voice was tinny through the cell phone – but that could not account for all of his irritation. Charles drew his knees up to his chest. “I do not.”

“You dated _Emma_ , Charles. Emma Frost!”

“And I made a mistake in telling you – I can see that now.”

“Em. Ma.”

“She’s a perfectly nice person, Raven.” The lie came easily. “She just wasn’t the one for me.”

“She’s horrible and you know it. How is she, by the way? Still playing like a robot?”

“Stop that, Raven –”

“Hey, I have ears.”

“I know. And you’re right.” Charles sighed. “Let’s just not talk about her right now.”

“… ‘k. What do you want to talk about?”

A good question, really. Charles didn’t quite know the answer. He put little store in psychotherapy, and less in the good-hearted attempts of his younger sister to fix his life. So there was no sense in uncovering the reasons for his cowardice. Sober, he recognized them perfectly well.

A longing for something unattainable, for all the breaks in his world to be mended. A tendency towards purple prose, Charles thought, grimacing. But … the deep-seated need to be safe, and loved … Add that to an incurable need to care for things – _not_ pamper, Charles told himself fiercely, he would _not_ pamper – and the result was one who came off somewhere between smothering and desperately lonely.

And he, Charles Xavier, was not lonely.

“Hello?”

“Hello, dear.” Charles ieft off his woolgathering and got up to make a cup of tea. “Tell me about your love life for once. What happened to that Hank character?”

As Raven embarked on the story, Charles watched the water boil. _How do you know you’re in love?_ It had been a mistake to ask Raven such a personal question – but she would not hold it against him, surely. What else were siblings for?

* * *

Sunday, Charles came to the rescue of one Janos Quested. It was too bad that such a rescue left him little opportunity to ask his question. He managed it, though, in a break between movements of the postlude.

“Yeah, well.” Janos shrugged. “Let me think a sec.”

A flick of both hands saw all the organ registrations change; when the opening chord of the finale boomed through the loft, Charles had to clap both hands over his ears.

“Think? How the hell can you think, with – this?”

Another shrug. “Same way I always think.”

Janos started a lengthy pedal solo, feet moving faster than Charles thought possible. Then he took out his phone and started texting. While playing.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s fun.” A grin. “Almost as fun as the Allegro – did you like that?”

Charles had not liked it. The tempo Janos had set had left him little notice of two crucial page turns. Bad enough that he had to squint at the clusters of thirty-second notes … what was worse was that Janos laughed and determinedly withheld all cues. Now, Charles gave him a mock cuff to the head. “Cruel and unusual punishment.”

“I have to do something to mix it up – keep the Great Xavier on his toes.”

Janos finished the pedal solo with a flourish and tucked the cell phone into one pocket of his cassock. Then he pulled out all the stops. Literally.

“You know,” Charles shouted, “what Stravinsky said about the organ?”

“What?”

“He said: ‘The monster never breathes!’ ”

“What?!”

“ ‘The monster never breathes! ”

“I can’t hear a single thing you’re saying,” Janos bellowed again. “And I love it!”

Charles gave up, cuffed his friend upside the head once more, and took too long for the last page turn – on purpose.

* * *

Monday morning again, then. Charles cupped his chin in his hands and stared down at his schedule for the week. Janos had taken him out to Goldie’s in thanks, and had given him a long lecture on good relationships, complete with anecdote after anecdote. A god in the organ loft and practically silent with those who didn’t know him – who knew, then, that Janos had a side gig as a bloody Agony Aunt?

The advice had all been sound. Charles sighed, and watched the graph paper flutter on his desk. Yes, the advice had been fine … but he hadn’t dared to mention Erik’s name. Janos was a friend of his, too.

Not quite as close as Azazel, no – but still. Forlane had its pecking order among the performers. Some commanded loyalty through charm, like Azazel – some through conniving, like Emma. But some were outside the whole you-stab-my-back, I’ll-stab-yours mentality. Above it. There was a particular combination of charisma, sheer technical ability, and tenacity …

… and when others saw that combination, they closed ranks to protect that person against any threat. From professors who could be rivals. From distractions. From – Charles gulped – _love_. Love took up a lot of time, after all. And sometimes the protectors wanted to crack the combination themselves.

He had never heard of Erik dating anyone.

Charles flexed his fingers, wincing at their ache. At least the rain had gone. Everything else was much the same, though. A week of work ahead; more “going all googly,” as Raven would have it, over someone unattainable. Sure, Erik had approached him after history class on Wednesday. But that had been a fluke.

Charles buried his head in his hands. Definitely a fluke. Another day, another week of the same lovesick semester, and Erik didn’t know he existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All these conservatory folks and all their favorite pieces! Here's the soundscape for this chapter:
> 
> Although I had intended to put Sean in the title role of Rossini's "Barber of Seville" (and thus have him sing that (in)famous tongue-twister of an aria), I thought later that he might do well as a tenor. So here are two examples of tenor singing.
> 
> Much shorter - and f'in hilarious - as a framing device from an episode of the show "Scrubs."
> 
> ["My New Coat" - opera singer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=or8UhztOSH4)
> 
> And this: Fritz Wunderlich, in a 1964 recording of Mozart's "Magic Flute." (That is: the sound is from 1964, but the image (nb not visible in Germany, apparently) is from 1959.)
> 
> ["Dies Bildnis ist bezaubernd schön"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5f0HTCugl_Y&feature=bf_prev&list=PLB16007B4D65A8663)
> 
> The aria is Tamino's song of adoration for Pamina's portrait. It's an exquisite tenor showpiece.
> 
> Azazel is playing Corelli's ["La Follia."](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VHRdFILo_Yw&feature=related)
> 
> More often spelled "Folia," the music in question was a very basic idea (a descending pattern in the lowest musical line) repeated many times - each time with different and fantastic elaborations played by the violin. Azazel makes up variations of his own, but that's in keeping with the nature of pieces like Corelli's.
> 
> Anyway, Janos Quested the reticent organist rounds everything out with a big old improv complete with pedal solo, leading into the last movement of Vierne's Symphony No. 3 for organ. Here's Sarah Soularue playing that same movement. She overcomes the recording devices towards the end - they don't stop recording, of course, but they crackle and fizz, super-saturated with sound. Daaaaaaamn. (Especially 4:30 and on!!)
> 
> ["Vierne!"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8mVSoikeA0o)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!


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